


but if i just showed up at your party?

by nightwideopen



Series: Winterhawk Bingo [8]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bingo, Exes to Lovers, High School Reunion, M/M, Meddling Natasha Romanov, Past Infidelity, Post-High School, Song: betty (Taylor Swift), Songfic, Winterhawk Bingo 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28631514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightwideopen/pseuds/nightwideopen
Summary: He's not a horrible person. He didn't mean to hurt Clint. He was a kid and he was stupid and maybe he's not as inherently good as Clint but he's grown and he's changed and he's ready to make amends and do whatever it takes to show the man he's loved since he was fourteen that he's worth fighting for. That he was worth the heartache of six years without him.A Betty AU in which Bucky is James, Clint is Betty, and Natasha is the august girl.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: Winterhawk Bingo [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858948
Comments: 13
Kudos: 50
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo Round Two





	but if i just showed up at your party?

**Author's Note:**

> happy new year!
> 
> let me start this off by saying i don't condone cheating lol. there's a lot of justifying and excuses in this fic and it's a little yuck but i wanted to follow the song. if any kind of off screen/past/mentions of infidelity is not your jam i don't suggest reading this. but i want to follow that up by saying that in the fic it's not easily forgiven and trust isn't 100% earned back by the end and it's (hopefully) very clear that every character involved is absolutely willing to do their part to properly make amends and not just by a half hearted apology or blindly accepting one just for the sake of a happy ending.
> 
> because it is a happy ending! for everyone involved. they're all ok in the end.
> 
> thank you to [trashkingtater](https://trashkingtater.tumblr.com/) for being the best cheerleader and to the whb discord friendos for the sprints
> 
> 💜
> 
>  **Winterhawk Bingo Square filled:** (G5) Meddling Best Friends

The last thing Bucky expects on a Wednesday afternoon is his phone ringing, lighting up with Natasha Romanov’s contact photo and loudly proclaiming _‘girls just wanna have fun.’_

She set her own ringtone for him back in high school, and he hasn't changed it since. He should really look into that. 

He halfheartedly clears his throat before muttering out a weak, “Hello?” He hasn't spoken to anyone besides his cat in about three days, having been holed up in his office working on the last edits of a manuscript, the deadline breathing down his neck like a grim reaper. 

Because he _will_ be murdered if he doesn't finish in time. 

“James?”

And sure, plenty of people call him James because it's his _name_ and he's an _adult_ and can't introduce himself as _Bucky_ to potential bosses and clients, but something about the way she says it makes his heart leap in a funny way. Christ, when was the last time he spoke to her?

“Hey. Um, yeah it's me. Hi.”

“Oh.” She sounds surprised. “I wasn't sure if this was still your number. That would've been embarrassing.”

He laughs, but it's hollow and disingenuous. “Very embarrassing.”

“Sorry, um.” There's an awkward silence as she gathers her thoughts. “Clint is throwing a party next week. Sort of an unofficial high school reunion. You should come.”

Bucky pales, falling silent. The thought of seeing Clint, Clint _Barton._ After all this time. After what he did—

“Does he know you're calling me?”

“No.”

“Nat…” She has to understand how this looks. The two of them going behind Clint’s back? _Again?_ “If he wanted me there he would've invited me. I don't want to… cause any undue drama. We've hurt him enough.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“I… I haven't. He didn't want me to. I-I left him alone. It was high school, Nat, it was never gonna—”

“Listen to me.” Natasha's always been no nonsense, but even after all this time there's something about her that still chills Bucky’s bones. “I spoke to him. A couple of months ago. It's been… far too long. We were best friends, all of us, and he loved you. And the two of us? We fucked that up big time. Apologizing to him, gaining that trust back, has been really fucking hard but so worth it. He's exactly the way he was when we knew him, James. He's every bit the kind, carefree, selfless person that you fell in love with. Okay? And what he deserves is an apology. I can't say he's forgiven me, but taking that step forward, reaching out, I can see that it's meant a lot to him. He's lost so much, and deserves as many people in his corner as he can get. You understand that, don't you? Even if you haven't thought about him since then, I know you remember. And I know you want good things for him. And for yourself. You both deserve that closure. So just trust me on this one okay? It's not a conspiracy, it's not going behind his back. I'm just trying to fix what we broke, alright?”

Bucky lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. Natasha’s words settle in his chest, making it hard to breathe and even harder to think. Of _course_ he wants what's best for Clint. That's what he's always wanted. Even when he was a dumb ass teenager and he thought _he_ was what's best. He broke something precious to him, and Natasha is offering him a chance to mend it. At the very least, Clint deserves that olive branch. An apology. A chance to know that not everyone is out to hurt him. People change. People make mistakes. 

Bucky's mistake was leaving and never looking back. 

“Okay.” His throat is tight with everything he wants to say to her but doesn't know how. “Send me the details. I— I'll go.”

Natasha’s voice softens. “Alright, James. I'll see you then.”

—

The address Natasha sends him is one he already knows. It's the farmhouse back in Iowa that Clint would go to every summer, where Bucky would send him letters and photographs of what he was doing. It's the same address that was postmarked on all of Clint’s responses, on the envelopes Bucky kept in a box under his bed with all of the stuff he collected that was near and dear to his teenage heart. 

He was young and in love and sentimental as hell, sue him.

Bucky stops at his Mom’s house a couple days before the party and sifts under his childhood bed for that very box. She lingers in the doorway while he does, smirking like she knows something he doesn't. He sits on the edge of the bed with the box in his hands.

“Are you going to that reunion Becca was telling me about?”

Bucky groans. “How the hell does she know about that?”

His mother just shrugs. They both know that Becca was the biggest gossip in high school. It never mattered that she’s two years younger than Bucky, she always knew everyone’s business before even Bucky did.

She knew about Bucky and Nat before Clint did. And she smacked him upside the head for it. And then she went home and told their Mom and that was probably the only real fight the three of them have ever had.

“Yeah, I’m going. Nat called— Not like that!” He immediately shuts down the scolding she looks like she’s about to give him. “She said they made up. That he’s working on forgiving her. She told me I should make the same effort to make things right. I agreed.”

“Because you still love him.”

“Yeah, because I— Wait what?”

She gestures vaguely at the box in his hands.

“Well. I—” He’s hard pressed to come up with an excuse as to why he hasn’t thrown any of this shit out. “Maybe I do. Maybe we’d still be together if I wasn’t such an asshole at seventeen.”

“Maybe.” Good to know that his own mother agrees that he was an asshole. “But there’s no use in lingering on the past. You’re both in different places now then you were. Maybe if you apologize, and you mean it, you might be able to salvage what made losing each other so hard.” Then she shrugs as if everything she just said was hopeless guessing. “Who knows.”

She leaves him to mull over that, with his box full of memories and his heartache.

Bucky doesn’t think he’s been in love since Clint, at least not for real. He’s had fleeting crushes, short-lived flings, and hopeless bouts of infatuation that faded like the setting sun. And they were great, he wouldn’t ever want to forget things or people that made him feel so much. Those people and those experiences are tattooed on his heart forever.

But Clint? Clint _was_ his whole heart. For a long time and at a time in his life when every little thing felt like it was either best or the worst thing with no in between. He knows that no one is ever going to feel anything the way they feel their first love, he knows for sure that _he’s_ not going to, but what he’s not sure of is if he and Clint were ever meant to be. He doesn’t know if their love would’ve lasted outside of high school. But thanks to him, they never got the chance to find out. And doing this now feels like opening an old wound for something that might not be worth it, something that might not work out in the end. 

The first thing that he sees when he opens the box makes his breath catch in his throat. 

Inside is the arrowhead that nearly took Bucky’s head off on their first date. 

Clint had thought it would’ve been romantic to make Bucky stand up against the wall at their local archery range — as he looked around to make sure there weren’t any employees watching — and fire an arrow directly next to Bucky’s face. Bucky had watched as a couple strands of hair drifted onto his shirt, stunned for a long moment at how close it had come to grazing his cheek. 

He then proceeded to take a running start and tackle Clint to the ground for nearly _killing_ him.

“I wasn’t gonna kill you!” Clint had yelled while laughing. Which didn’t do much to keep the employees in the dark about what they were up to. “It’s a William Tell! I just didn’t have an apple!”

Bucky had ignored him, devolving into mercilessly tickling Clint as he squirmed and giggled and protested weakly. Sue him, he _was_ impressed. But he’d been more — albeit _belatedly_ — worried about how he’d blindly followed Clint’s instructions and let him fire a murderous projectile at his face. 

Being in love really does make you stupid. 

Clint had managed to break free eventually, stumbling over to the wall and yanking the arrow out of the paper target. He’d watched Bucky watch him as he carefully unscrewed the arrowhead from the shaft.

“Do you trust me?” he’d asked, wide-eyed and reverent. It made Bucky’s insides twist up in a way that only happens when you’re in love with your best friend.

“Of course.”

Clint then took Bucky’s hand and put the arrowhead into it. “Good. Because I trust _you_ ,” he’d said. “More than anything. And I’d never hurt you. Okay?”

Bucky couldn’t do anything but nod before the employees had come over to chase them out of the place for nearly causing a lawsuit. 

Bucky falls asleep somewhere along the way while sifting through the box, exhausted by the onslaught of memories. When he wakes up, disoriented and heavy-chested, he knows for sure that he has to go. He has to see Clint. 

He gives his mom a long hug on the way out, finds comfort in her hand in his hair, the smell of her perfume. She sends him off with a kiss and enough food to last him until he leaves for Iowa.

—

The day before the party, Steve pulls up in front of Bucky’s apartment in his god-awful yellow Jeep blasting _Born to Be Wild_. Bucky wants to pretend that he doesn’t notice, but the longer he sits in his kitchen with his face in his hands, the more likely it is that Steve is going to wake up all of his neighbors.

He looks at Alpine mournfully. 

“What did I ever do to deserve this?”

Alpine just swishes her tail over the edge of the counter, clearly miffed that he’s leaving. He’s already filled up the food bowl with the automatic timer and made sure her water fountain was filled up and clean. He changed her litter and put out all her favorite toys and cleaned all of his stuff off of the window nook in his bedroom so that she can sit on it and watch the birds on the tree outside. What more can he do?

“It’s only three days. You’ll be fine.”

Bucky grabs his suitcase and his breakfast bar and tries to get his heartbeat under control. By some stroke of luck or mercy or both, the music stops, so by the time he gets downstairs there’s no chance of his neighbors seeing exactly which asshole is friends with the asshole who is blasting Steppenwolf of all things at 7AM on a Tuesday. 

Apparently his music killing godsend is Natasha, because she’s sitting in the passenger seat, looking supremely annoyed while Steve pouts in the driver’s seat. 

“Need a hand?”

Bucky rolls his eyes because oh, _fuck_. “Who invited this asshole?”

The back door of the car opens and out comes Sam Wilson, one of Bucky's best friends and also his mortal enemy. He looks cool and collected in a brown leather jacket and sunglasses; the polar opposite of Bucky’s eye bags and oversized hoodie. Even Natasha looks a little rumpled because it's _seven in the morning._ No one should be allowed to look that good this early. 

Nevertheless, Bucky’s question is rhetorical because obviously Clint invited him. Probably because Sam didn't break his heart in high school.

“Piss off, Barnes, and give me your bag. We've got ground to cover.”

He tosses Bucky’s bag into the trunk and makes room for him in the backseat. The music stays off and the windows go down, ruffling Bucky’s hair and making him pull his sleeves more firmly over his hands. He watches the city go by as they go over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, keeping his eyes fixed on the buildings as they weave through the streets and mid-morning traffic. 

Steve's a scary driver. 

They make it all the way into Jersey before Steve asks Nat, “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

All three of them groan. 

“For God’s sake, Steve, it's not even 8AM,” Natasha grumbled. 

Steve doesn't even bother looking sheepish. Probably because he's all too aware of how Bucky's uninvited presence could cause the shitstorm of the century. Bucky kicks at the back of Steve's seat. 

“I'm trying to make things right, Stevie. Aren't I allowed to do that?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Steve looks at him in the rear view mirror and shrugs. “Just, I dunno. Time and place? I think he invited our whole class.”

“You're acting like he's gonna propose in front of everyone or some shit,” Sam says. “I'm sure there'll be a moment. Besides, he's got the courage now, why wait? It's been long enough and I personally would like to see this resolved already.”

“Sure.” Steve doesn't sound convinced, and he's making that stupid concerned face he gets when he thinks Bucky's going to get hurt. “Just… don't be disappointed if it's too much for him. He just lost his mom and—”

“What?”

Bucky didn't know this. 

“Why didn't any of you assholes tell me that? I would've fucking—”

_Now_ Steve looks sheepish. “We thought you knew.”

“Jesus.” Clint's going to punch him in his face. “I haven't spoken to the guy in six years, why would I—?” He cuts himself off. It doesn't matter now. “Steve, just don't worry about it alright? I just wanna apologize and let him say his piece about whatever he wants and if he wants me to leave, I'll leave. But I can't spend anymore time killing myself wondering what could've been if I'd never… I gotta know, okay?”

Steve just nods, and Bucky goes back to looking out the window as they pass by Metlife Stadium. Ugh. Why does he have to have friends who _care?_ Steve never has ill intentions but his hovering is always… probably overcompensating for the fact that he wasn't there for Bucky after high school. Bucky has told him time and again that he doesn't blame Steve for going away to college, for chasing his dream and honing his craft and doing what he needed to do to be successful. Now Steve's an assistant art curator for the goddamn Museum of Modern Art, selling his own pieces to high profile galleries at _twenty-three_. Bucky doesn't blame him for anything. He just wishes that he'd worry less and just… be there for the fallout. 

Because the fallout this time is inevitable. 

Steve turns the music back on after that, thankfully to something less ear piercing for so early in the morning. And Bucky chances a look over at Sam. 

Sam’s looking back at him, no surprise there, but he's got that soft look on his face that he gets when he wants Bucky to know that he's being no-nonsense. That this isn't the time for snark and banter, that he actually cares and he's here for him. 

Because Sam did stay in New York. Sam went to NYU with Bucky the whole goddamn time and watched him jump through every hoop he created for himself and picked Bucky up when he fell flat on his face. 

“You still love him,” Sam says so that only Bucky can hear. 

Bucky nods, pulling at his sleeves just a little bit more, wishing the sweatshirt would swallow him whole. He doesn't want to do this. 

“It's gonna be fine. You just gotta mean it. You can't go wrong if your heart’s in the right place. Clint’s the kinda guy who can sense things like that.”

“I know,” Bucky says, voice cracking. “I _know_.”

And he does know. He knows every bit of Clint inside and out and he feels it in his bones that six years hasn't changed him much. Bucky is absolutely certain that down to his core, Clint was destined to be the good person he always was. People who are fundamentally good and kind are born that way, and they don't shove it in your face. It's the little things Clint would do, like pull Bucky out of parties when he got too drunk and make him sit on the curb until he was okay to get on the subway home. Like carrying around Natasha's favorite stick gum in his backpack in case she left hers at home. Like making sure Steve’s sketchbooks stayed clean during lunch when people started throwing food. Like never letting _anyone_ , not even the homophobic assholes they went to school with, dull the sunshine core of him. 

Sam reaches a hand across the middle seat to pat Bucky’s shoulder. He doesn't say anything else, just offers a confident smile and a nod that doesn't so much convince Bucky as it does simply put him at ease. 

He's not a horrible person. He didn't mean to hurt Clint. He was a kid and he was stupid and maybe he's not as inherently good as Clint but he's grown and he's changed and he's ready to make amends and do whatever it takes to show the man he's loved since he was fourteen that he's worth fighting for. That he was worth the heartache of six years without him. 

Clint is worth the whole goddamn world and Bucky intends to tell him that. 

—

Bucky falls asleep somewhere between Columbus and Indianapolis to the sound of Steve humming along to his _Best of the 40s_ playlist. He drifts in and out between songs and cities, squinting from one McDonald’s sign to the next until Steve pulls off of a random exit and into the parking lot of a motel. 

“I'm sharing with Nat,” Bucky says groggily as he tugs his bag from the trunk. It's entirely out of some deeply ingrained habit from growing up and taking Natasha along on family road trips to Shelbyville. For a moment in his half asleep state, he's ten years old again calling dibs on not having to share a bed with his kicky sister. 

Everyone stares at him. 

“Or not. Sorry.”

There's an awkward silence until Natasha snaps them out of it by stomping forward and grabbing Bucky's bag and arm.

“Ignore them. Come on.”

She checks them in swiftly, leaving Sam and Steve to handle their own bags. When they’re in their room, door closed, Bucky throws his bag in the dusty arm chair and flops onto the covers fully clothed. He hates this. He hates everything about this. He can’t stop thinking about Clint. He can’t stop thinking about every bad thing he’s ever done. Not just to Clint, but to his sister, to his friends, to _strangers._ The idea of confronting this part of his past and trying to make amends is making his jaw clench. Bucky can’t remember the last time he genuinely apologized for something he did. He stares at the ceiling, hoping it’ll collapse on him so he can just go home and avoid this whole thing.

“Fuck,” he accidentally says out loud.

“Stop moping,” Natasha says immediately. She sits on her own bed, watching him. He can feel her eyes on the top of his head. “Whatever bullshit you’re doing to work yourself up is a waste of time. Worst case scenario, he shuts the door in your face. He’s not big on confrontation. Or arguing. He’s a borderline pacifist unless someone is being homophobic or abusing a dog.”

Bucky sighs. “Do you remember that time, when we were together, and I said, ‘We should stop doing this’?” He can count on one hand the times that summer where he outwardly expressed concern for Clint finding out about the two of them. “And you said, ‘Worst case scenario, he finds out’? Do you remember that?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “Thanks for that.”

“ _Oh my God_ , James. You’re so—”

“What? I’m what?” He actually sits up and turns around to look at her, anger swimming in the pit of his stomach. He’d stopped blaming her long ago but he’s killing himself here with guilt and she wants to act like _everything’s fine_. Bucky knows he’s the one who cheated, but _she’s_ the one who worked long and hard to convince him that it was alright. That nothing would happen. That Clint would never find out. “I fucking broke his heart, Tasha. That’s no small feat. I was his first _everything_ and I ruined all of that just to-to what? Make sure I still liked girls? It didn’t fucking matter. None of it. I threw away the best thing in my life and now I’ll never know what could’ve been because you wanted to have a little fucking fun with me for a month. Was it worth it, Nat? Was the game fucking worth it?”

“Of course not,” she says calmly. “Of course it wasn’t. I was sixteen. I was a manipulative bitch until I ruined my best friends’ lives and found out that my actions have consequences. Nothing I had ever done up until that point mattered and I’m sorry that it had to be you that taught me that lesson. I’m _sorry_ , James.”

Bucky deflates. Because he gets it. They were just kids. They thought the rules didn’t apply to them and they hurt someone and they hurt each other and themselves and all they can do now is learn from that and try like hell not to do it again.

“I’m sorry, too.”

He just hopes that Clint sees it the same way.

—

The next morning Bucky wakes up to Steve’s nose in his face.

“You’re a real motherfucker, you know that?” he grumbles. “What fucking time is it?”

Steve grins. “Eight. I brought you coffee. We gotta get going if we wanna make it by three. Come on.” He gives Bucky’s shoulder a great big pat with his man paw and backs away quickly as Bucky reaches out to swipe at him. “No maiming me, I have to drive. Now get up or no coffee for you.”

It’s a sound threat, so Bucky gets up, feeling like someone dumped a bag of rocks down his throat. Because today’s the last day he can sit in the car imagining Clint’s reaction to seeing his stupid face again after all these years. Because after today he’ll have looked him in the eye, he’ll have tried his damndest to apologize and make it right. And after that it’s up to Clint where they go from there. 

And he’s fucking terrified.

Natasha sits in the back with him this time, putting her bag next to the window so that she can sit pressed against him with his hand in hers. She lets him squeeze it, helps him breathe, makes him eat a breakfast bar even when he’s too nauseous with anxiety because she knows he’ll vomit anyway if he doesn’t eat anything all day. He realizes then how much he’s missed her, because she’s always known him so well. He knows her, too, knows that she’s nervous for him. He can see the guilt in her frown, the regret in the wrinkle of her nose. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” she says as they cross the Iowa state line. “If he can forgive me, he can forgive you. His heart’s big enough for us both and then some.”

“What did he say? Was he angry?”

“He was upset. But what he said is between us and I’m not going to tell you what _I_ said either because you’re going to come up with your apology yourself.” She smirks. “Just speak from your heart.”

“Yeah,” Bucky laughs sarcastically, “My heart of stone.”

“Oh, don't sell yourself short you big mush. Don't you remember what you were like _before_ you and Clint got together? A hopeless romantic if I ever saw one.”

If nothing else, that's true. Bucky was overly invested in Clint's interests and hobbies, always listening to him rant and rave and then buying him gifts accordingly. It's a wonder Clint didn't catch on to how much Bucky liked him until Bucky told him so. Bucky was… he was in love. And he didn't care who knew. As long as Clint knew.

And then he ruined it.

“Yeah. I guess so.” He looks at Natasha, half expecting a mischievous smirk on her lips. But it’s not there. She’s honestly trying to comfort him and he’s missed her _so_ much. He’s suddenly struck with guilt. “I’m sorry I didn’t call. I spent a long time blaming you for what happened and I guess after a while I just… forgot. How much our friendship meant to me.”

“It’s okay. I’m here now. And I’ll stick around if you want me to.”

“If Clint lets you.”

She scoffs. “As if Clint needs to _let_ me do anything. It’s gonna take a while to rebuild the trust between the three of us, but we’re allowed to be friends, James. He knows that.”

Bucky just nods. Trust is complicated. It’s easy enough on the upswing but once it’s broken, it’s never fully fixed. If by some miracle Clint does forgive him, they’ll never have what they had before.

“I just hope he believes me. When I say I never meant to hurt him.”

Natasha just shrugs, and the conversation tapers off. She leaves Bucky to his fretting, to draft his apology and watch the fields roll by in a blur. 

—

The crunch of the gravel on the driveway makes Bucky’s chest tighten uncomfortably. He’s never been to this house, but he’s seen plenty of photos, seen it in the _background_ of plenty of photos and it’s so painfully familiar that he almost jumps over the console to grab the steering wheel out of Steve’s hands and turn them around. 

“Oh, God,” he whimpers into his hands. He’s not ready for this. He’ll never be ready for this. He doesn’t know why he ever thought in a million years that—

“Jesus, Buck, calm down,” Sam says from the passenger seat.

Bucky scowls at him. “I will kick you in the throat.”

“Sure you will.”

“Sam, please,” Natasha says.

“Yeah, Sam, please.”

“James—”

“Steve!” says Steve.

Bucky hates them all.

Natasha unbuckles her seatbelt to turn and put herself between Bucky and the front of the car. She’s speaking softly and he’s trying to focus but all he can see behind her head is the house getting closer and closer. Oh, God, it’s _them_ getting closer. They’re nearly there and Bucky doesn’t know what he’s going to say—

The car stops and Natasha comes back into focus.

“James, breathe.”

“I am breathing.”

“Breathe better. You’re nearly hyperventilating.”

Bucky suddenly becomes very aware that he can barely breathe. 

“Oh fuck. Fuck. Jesus Christ.”

Natasha puts a hand on his shoulder and wordlessly nods. He's not going to get anything more, and he's not going to feel any better by lingering in the car. So he kicks himself into autopilot at the very least and gets his door open, gets his feet on the ground, and starts walking towards the house. 

He keeps his head down, but as he gets closer he can smell a barbecue going, can hear the excited chatter of people who haven't seen each other in years. Bucky feels so disconnected from it all, hyper aware of the eyes of his friends on his back, of each step he takes. He's aware of his hair and his T-shirt and his hands. He doesn't know what to do with his hands. He sticks them in the pocket of his jeans, takes them out, runs them through his hair, fixes his hair, sticks his hands back in his pockets. 

Fuck. 

“It's gonna be fine. It's gonna be fine. It's gonna be—”

Bucky collides with someone. 

“Ow. Sorry, didn't see you— Oh.”

It's not going to be fine because for the first time in six years Bucky is standing in front of Clint Barton. His heart’s in his throat and Clint is _looking at him_. Clint can see him. Clint is tall and he's lean and his clothes look a size too big and his eyes are boring into Bucky’s the way they always used to. 

Bucky makes a distressed sound, fish-mouthing and grappling for _any_ words.

“Hi.”

Okay, good start.

Clint looks past Bucky over his shoulder and waves at someone. Probably Steve and Sam. He smiles big and bright as he does, his whole face lighting up and holy shit he’s so grown up. He has a _beard_. He couldn’t grow a beard back in high school, when he was awkward and lanky and unable to control his rapidly growing limbs. But he looks so confident now; he’s hosting a reunion barbecue for God’s sake. This is the Clint that Bucky wanted to watch grow. He’s missed it all. And now Clint is standing in front of him, the smile slipping off his face as he looks back at Bucky.

“What are you doing here?” He almost sounds sorry as he says it. 

Bucky swallows every last bit of courage he has, and all that’s left is the dread of knowing that no matter what he says it’s not going to be good enough.

“Can we talk? Somewhere private, just for a minute? You can tell me to go fuck myself but I—”

“Yeah.” Clint cuts him off, nodding in agreement. “I should, but…” A look of utter defeat comes over his face. He jerks his head in the direction of the house. “Come on.”

Bucky tries to keep his breathing even, counting his footsteps, trying not to look too chastised. He feels like he’s headed to the principal’s office to be told off, but Christ it’s a miracle that Clint’s willing to talk to him at all. Even so, his distraction comes in the form of Clint’s back as he leads the way, the muscles of his shoulders shifting under his T-shirt as he waves at the people they pass. Bucky almost forgot just how attractive he is, how perfect. The sun’s turning his hair even more golden than it already is, freckles visible on his neck and shoulders where his T-shirt’s slipping down. Bucky wants to touch him, to hug him, to hold him and tell him he’s sorry and that he never should’ve let him go without a fight. Because that’s the truth of the matter, Bucky never even tried to make it right. Clint told him to fuck off out of his life and he _did_ , without so much a question about it. 

This feels like too little too late but he has nothing left to lose now as Clint leads them into the back garden that’s blooming with all kinds of foods and flowers. Bucky had never pegged Clint for a gardening type but he is probably the most independent and self sustaining person that Bucky has ever known — yes, _including_ Steve and Natasha — so it doesn’t come as too much of a surprise. If nothing else, it's endearing as hell. 

There’s a little purple garden bench nestled between stalks of towering sunflowers and that’s where Clint sits, waiting on Bucky to follow. And Bucky’s helpless to do anything but fall into his orbit, finally feeling like he’s in the right place again after drifting along aimlessly for so many years, lost. He’s found his focal point again and he’s going to _make this right_.

Clint looks at him expectantly, making Bucky’s insides squirm in the worst way. He doesn’t know what to _say_. Sure, he spent the last four hours practicing all the ways he’s going to apologize but he doesn’t know where to _start_.

He stays quiet for so long that eventually Clint breaks the awkward silence.

“So. You didn’t answer my question.”

Right. _What are you doing here?_

What _is_ he doing here? Christ, he has no idea. 

“Um,” he says, pulling at the sleeves of his sweater. He supposes that’s as good a place to start as any. “I… I came to say that I'm sorry. I got a whole— I got a speech planned. But I feel like you don’t wanna hear it. And regardless of that I owe you an apology. I think I owe you about a dozen apologies for being an asshole and for not calling for _not_ apologizing six years ago—”

“And for cheating on me with my best friend.”

“And… yeah. That. I-I’m sorry, Clint,” Bucky says helplessly. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry. You have no idea.”

He can already feel the tears welling up behind his eyes, the sob threatening to tumble out of him making his throat close up and ache. He chances a look at Clint, gauging his reaction. He looks distressed, like he feels sorry for Bucky.

“You can say your speech. If you want. You probably rehearsed it the whole way here.”

It’s stupid how well Clint still knows him. After all this time. It should make Bucky feel special but instead it makes him feel scrutinized, transparent, like Clint is reading all of his thoughts as if they were being projected across his face.

Maybe they are. Clint was always better at reading people than Bucky was.

Maybe he _did_ know that Bucky was in love with him back then and just wanted Bucky to say it. 

Maybe he knows it now.

“I… yeah. It’s— I know it’s… it’s no excuse but I just— I was a kid, Clint. I didn’t know what I wanted. I spent the whole — God, this is so fucked up — I spent that whole summer _thinking about you_. And I could point fingers and play the blame game but I stopped doing that a long time ago. Because _I_ hurt you. Me. And I never tried to make amends or take accountability because I guess I didn’t want to believe that I could do something that horrible to someone like you. Someone that I loved. And I never even tried to make up for it. I broke your trust and your heart when you gave them to me, and there’s no excuse for that. I shattered something special beyond repair and I _left_. And not a day has gone by that I haven’t thought about it and about you.” Bucky laughs wetly. “I think about you every goddamn day.”

Clint is silent for a long moment, presumably trying to sift through the onslaught of information and helpless groveling. He studies Bucky, eyes skirting over him until he sighs softly. 

“I hated you, you know.”

“I know—”

“I don’t think you do.”

And Bucky can’t really argue with that. He hasn’t been on the receiving end of what he did to Clint.

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, sorry doesn’t undo it. But I’m not in the business of holding grudges over shit that happened in high school. I had to let that go, you know? I just… had bigger shit going on.” Clint fiddles with the silver bracelet that’s wrapped around his wrist. “I’m not mad at you anymore, Buck. And I do appreciate the apology.”

It’s more honest and gracious than Bucky ever could have hoped for and it throws him for a loop. Natasha wasn’t kidding when she’d said he hadn’t gotten angry. In fact, Bucky doesn’t think he’d ever seen Clint angry in the entire time he’d known him.

Except for, well, you know.

After.

Bucky nods sheepishly. “It’s… the least I can do. Like, literally the bare minimum, I—” He wants so badly to reach out and takes Clint’s hand, to feel his skin under his and squeeze to let Clint know that he means what he’s saying. He tries desperately to grab hold of his thoughts and put them into coherent sentences. Being around Clint makes him so _stupid_. “Clint. I’ve— I’ve _missed_ you. Like you wouldn’t believe. And… And I’d really like it if we could at least be friends again. Again, you can tell me to fuck off, but—”

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

Clint’s mouth twists into something of a grimace. “I—” Something catches his attention back at the party. “Come find me later, okay, and we can talk more.”

“Sure, yeah.”

It all happens so fast and gives Bucky a bit of whiplash. Clint didn't say much but… what was he supposed to say? There's nothing to do but let him go, back to his party, back to his hosting duties. So Bucky stays on the bench swinging his feet where Natasha eventually finds him. She plops down next to him with a nonchalant air about her, looking about two seconds away from saying—

“I told you so.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I didn’t even tell you how it went. I could be sitting here sulking about how horrible it was for all you know. Maybe he punched me.”

“I spoke to Clint. He told me where you were.”

“Oh.”

“Uh huh.” She shoves him playfully. “Know-it-all.”

—

Time seems to pass in slow motion after Natasha drifts back into the party. Bucky stays put until the sun starts to set and he hears the unmistakable sound of cars pulling away down the driveway. He wanders off to find the others, leaving his safe refuge only when he's sure the last few people have gone. Today’s not the day to be faced with people he went to high school with. Well, not any _more_ at least. 

Noise is coming from inside the little farm house; dishes clattering, Steve’s bellowing laughter. Bucky follows it, drifts into the kitchen, and tries not to shrivel up under the eyes of his friends. 

And Clint. 

“Geez, Buck, there you are,” Steve greets. “Thought you'd wandered off into the woods, you missed all the fun.”

Bucky shrugs. “Looks like it's just getting started, to me. Need any help in here?”

“Yeah,” Natasha says from beside Clint. He's elbow deep in suds and she tosses him the rag she's holding. “Clint’s washing, you dry.”

He catches the rag and stumbles awkwardly over to the sink. Natasha strikes up a purposefully loud conversation with Steve and Sam about someone-or-other’s kids she was shown pictures of today. Bucky doesn't know what he did to deserve her. 

“Hey.”

Clint looks at him quickly, and looks back down at the dishes just as fast. He hands Bucky a plate. 

“Hey.”

“Sorry if me showing up today was weird. Tasha called and I couldn't say no.”

“So she’s the only reason you came, then.”

The bitterness is clear in his tone. Bucky never should've mentioned it. 

But, “Well, _you_ didn't exactly invite me.”

Clint laughs. “Yeah. That clearly stopped you from coming anyway.”

His biting tone is miles away from the relatively easy acceptance of their conversation earlier, and Bucky suspects it’s because he didn’t want to make a scene or upset himself in the middle of his party. Bucky can’t fault him for that, and he certainly can’t fault Clint for his emotions catching up with him and showing Bucky how he’s really feeling. He’s not over it, sure, but he’s also not putting on a mask and a false bravado anymore. 

He really hasn’t changed all that much.

“Hey.” Bucky shuts off the tap and leans closer to Clint, keeps his words away from the others. “Look at me.” He waits until Clint reluctantly meets his gaze. “I'm not here to upset you. I just came to apologize, let you yell at me if that's what you needed. I figured we could both do with some closure but I—” _I still fucking love you with every inch of my being_. “I can go. If I'm doing more harm than good. Just say the word.”

“I don't want you to go,” Clint whispers, quickly. Which is reassuring and terrifying all at once. Maybe he _does_ want to yell at Bucky. God knows he deserves it. 

Then Clint clears his throat loudly and a hush falls over the kitchen. He grabs the rag from Bucky’s hands and wipes the suds off of his arms with it. His face is pinched and his cheeks are splotched red and Bucky wants to just wrap himself around him and tell him everything's alright. Everything's fine.

It isn’t, though. And probably never will be. But right now that’s up to Clint to decide. 

“Come on.”

He turns on his heel and walks away and Bucky is helpless to do anything but follow him. It feels exactly like it did earlier, scary and loaded with endless possibilities. But Bucky has a feeling that whatever happens next, he won't be able to talk his way out of it. 

So he waits. He stays quiet as Clint leads them to the front porch, as he dusts off the cushion on the porch swing, as Clint sits down and waves a hand at the open seat next to him. Bucky sits, keeps his eyes on the dark treeline, and waits with hunched shoulders for Clint to say whatever he needs to. 

“Why did you really come here? I know for a fact that just Tasha’s word alone isn’t enough to get your stubborn ass to do anything you don’t want to. So just be honest with me for five seconds without apologizing or waxing poetic about how you wanna make things right or find some closure. I couldn’t take your bullshit then and I can’t take it now; I want you to just tell me the fucking truth, alright?”

Bucky weighs his options carefully, searches the night sky for what could possibly be the correct answer here. His heartbeat pounds in his ears as he realizes he’s not getting out of this. Clint can still see right through him, after what might as well be a lifetime, and he’d be remiss to try and lie. There’s nothing he can make up that Clint would believe. It’s the reason he and Nat got caught back then. Bucky can’t lie to Clint for _shit_. Besides, he’s rattling right down to his bones trying to keep the words inside, but he _can’t_. He can’t fight the truth, not when Clint is sitting here begging it right out of him. So he puts his hands in the pockets of his sweatshirt and takes a deep, long breath, and says the only thing he _can_ say.

“I still love you, Clint.”

“You still– You still love me?”

Bucky looks at him, then, startled by the shudder of Clint’s voice. “Of course I am,” he says simply. “More than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. I broke your heart, sure, but I broke my own, too by making you send me away. What’s worse is that I _stayed_ away and I regret not fighting for us and now I’ll never know what could’ve been for all these years had I just shown you the same decency you showed me.”I needed to find out. If you’d be willing to-to forgive me. Give me another chance. I know you’ll never tr—”

“Trust you again?” Clint laughs a bit hysterically. “I… I don’t trust people these days. It’s something earned. It’s something I used to give out way too freely and I— It took me getting burned too many times to learn my lesson, I guess. Because even after…” Clint drops his head, shoulders shaking.

“I’m sorry, Clint. I really am. I never — Christ, this sounds like bullshit but I’m gonna say it anyway — I never wanted to hurt you. I would’ve, back then, literally taken a bullet for you. And honestly? I still would now. Whether you would for me or not. When Tasha told me that you forgave her, I wasn’t even surprised. Because that’s just the kind of person you are.”

“A fucking pushover?”

“No— what? Clint. You’re just a good person. You’re forgiving and you see the good in people and you’ve always been like that. For as long as I knew you. It was a fucking privelege, knowing you. You know that? Everyone wanted to be your friend in high school. Why do you think so many people showed up today?”

Clint shrugs. “Free food and gossip?”

Bucky quickly extracts one of his hands from his pockets to shove Clint. It startles a laugh out of them both. “Stop that! You always— Christ, you really haven’t changed.”

“Really? Not at all?”

“Well you’re fuckin’ tall as shit, but other than that?” Bucky tries to transcribe the fondness he’s feeling onto his face. He hopes Clint sees that he truly means every word he’s saying. “You’re still the big-hearted, selfless guy that we all knew you as. I mean… Clint, I know I don’t know who you are, who you’ve become in the past six years. But the things that make you _you_ , those things that are inherently Clint Barton? They’re all still there. Those are the things I fell in love with. And I never fucking stopped because I knew I’d never find someone better. And I’m not just saying this shit to get back into your good graces, okay? I fuckin’ mean it. Whether you want me in your life or not, I mean every word. And I’ll never stop loving you. You were my first love and my best friend and I will carry that with me until the day I die.”

Clint pinches the bridge of his nose, the flush on his cheeks returning with a vengeance. “Jesus Christ, Buck, you really know how to make a guy feel special, huh?”

Bucky takes Clint’s hand away from his face and shakes his head. “Just you. Only you.”

Then his free hand closes around the sharp object in his pocket. He pulls it out, and holds out his hand for Clint to take it. Then into Clint's hand, he drops the very same arrowhead that convinced him to do this. He knows Clint recognizes it immediately by the way his eyes widen and his mouth drops open.

“You keep that until you've decided I've earned it back.”

Clint’s lip wobbles and in the time it takes for Bucky to register that, Clint is pulling him in by the front of his sweatshirt and kissing him. It takes Bucky by surprise and it takes him a few seconds to get with the program, but he reciprocates by cradling Clint’s face in his hands, revelling in the feel of him under his fingers the way he’s wanted him all day. The way he's wanted him for six years and for always. Bucky almost forgot how much he loves this, how gentle Clint’s lips are, how hard he presses his forehead into Bucky’s. It’s those little things that have slipped his mind over the past six years but now each and every memory of Clint is exploding behind his eyes. And here’s Clint _now_ , right under Bucky’s hands and mouth and heart. Bucky can’t fucking believe it.

Clint pulls back after what feels like too long but not at all long enough.

“I don’t— I can’t forgive you right away, I—”

“I know,” Bucky says softly. He rubs a thumb along the slope of Clint’s cheekbone. “It’s okay. I don’t expect everything to go back how it was. I’m… I’m gonna prove it to you. That I want to be in your life, that I’m never going to hurt you the way I did before. Not ever.”

“It’s… Yeah. We’ve both got some work to do. But it’s… I think it’ll be worth it. In time.” Clint leans in for another soft kiss, then leaves his forehead resting against Bucky’s. “I love you, too, you know,” he says. “I never stopped. I couldn’t.”

Clint slides his arms up and around Bucky’s neck, shifts their position into a hug and tucks his face into Bucky’s shoulder. He’s warm and solid and real, keeping Bucky grounded to the fact that he hasn’t dreamt all of this up. 

Bucky sees movement out of the corner of his eye and turns. He quickly realizes that they’re right in front of the window and that Sam, Steve, and Natasha have been watching them this entire time.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—”

“Wha—?”

Clint sees them at the same time Bucky does, and they’re both greeted by three goofy grins staring back at them. 

They both flip them off.

And receive three middle fingers in return.

The peanut gallery disperses after a quick shove from Natasha, and Clint and Bucky dissolve into giggles.

When the laughter dies down, Clint looks over at Bucky, eyes wide and earnest and oh-so-fucking-irresistable. 

“Wanna stay over?”

“Oh. Um.” Bucky would _love_ to, but— “I gotta go back with…” He points a thumb back into the house. “Gotta go back to New York.”

Clint smirks, then he leans in like he’s going to tell Bucky a scandalous secret.

“I don’t actually live here.”

“... Oh.”

“The farm’s mine now, since Mom passed, so I make the trip every once in a while to make sure it hasn’t fallen apart. Plus, it’s nice to have some quiet and my own range every now and then. But I live in Brooklyn. Bed-Stuy. I’m just gonna stick around here tomorrow to clean up then I’m heading home Friday. Gotta go get my dog from Kate’s.”

“You live in— You have a—” All of this information is overwhelming and Bucky doesn’t know what to focus on first. He goes with, “Kate Bishop?” But wait, shit, _Alpine_. “My cat—”

Natasha knocks on the window and scares the shit out of him. Her little devilish face grins back. 

“I’ll pick up Alpine when we get back tomorrow.”

His friends are a bunch of eavesdropping, nosey, meddling assholes.

He loves them.

“Well,” he says to Clint. “I guess that’s sorted, then.”

Clint grins and drags Bucky into another hug. 

—

Bucky wakes up the next morning tangled in soft sheets and hard muscles. There’s a crow outside screaming bloody murder and the sun is _blinding_. But the window is open, letting in a soft morning breeze, and Bucky feels more well rested than he has in months.

Years, maybe. 

He pulls the duvet up higher, tucks it under his chin and turns his head to look at Clint. He’s not exactly the prettiest sleeper, snoring slightly with his mouth hanging open, but it sure is a sight for sore eyes who have missed out on this for far too long. Bucky can’t help himself from turning fully over and wrapping himself around Clint. He puts his nose in Clint’s hair, a hand on his sleep-warm arm and just listens to him breathe. He runs his hands over the endless freckles on Clint’s torso, revels in the weight of him on the mattress beside him. Bucky’s been sleeping alone for so long that these soft, vulnerable moments choke him up. He does everything he can to try to memorize this feeling, cataloging it the best he can. He never thought he’d be able to have this, and he doesn’t want to forget what it feels like to wake up next to Clint for the first time.

Clint eventually stirs, arms snaking around Bucky’s waist and pulling him impossibly closer. Bucky feels his nose against the underside of his chin, but doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t want to put even an inch of space between them. 

“Mmm—” Clint clears his throat. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Bucky replies, even though he knows Clint can’t hear him. He can probably feel the vibrations, know what he’s saying.

It’s Clint who pulls back then, far enough that he can lift his hands into the space between them. He lifts his right hand, palm flat, to his lips then extends his arm out towards Bucky. Then he takes his left hand, puts it flat into the crease of his right inner elbow and lifts the same extended arm back towards himself.

“Good morning,” he says.

Bucky repeats the motions, clumsily and inexpertly, and lets Clint’s deft hands correct him until he gets it right. When he finally does, Clint smiles and reaches for his hearing aids.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “I’ll learn.”

Clint just shrugs. “S’okay.”

“No. It’s not. I’ll learn, I promise.”

“Okay, alright.” Clint sighs with all the air of someone who does not want to have a serious conversation first thing in the morning. Then he grins. “You can make it up to me with pancakes.”

“Fine.”

Neither of them make any effort to move, just watching each other in the morning light. Bucky doesn’t know what Clint is thinking, and he’s not going to ask, but he hopes he feels it too, how right this is. Six years between them and Clint still makes his heart race in the most pleasant way. He takes in Clint’s sleep rumpled state for as long as he can stand without throwing himself into Clint’s space. But Clint is there to catch him, arms open and eyes bright.

“I fuckin’ love you, Clint Barton. More than words can say.”

Clint clutches onto Bucky for dear life, and pulls him up for a kiss that renders words useless. They don’t need words when they have this. Bucky knows Clint with every beat of his heart and he’s been lucky enough to be given another chance at something he doesn’t nearly deserve. But he intends to earn it, for as long as Clint wants him, Bucky will do his best to be someone worthy of Clint’s love.

Clint falls back onto his pillow and sighs. 

“You’re alright, too, I guess.”

Bucky hits him with a pillow. 

“See if I make you pancakes now.”

Clint pouts, and Bucky kisses it off him. 

“Fine,” Clint concedes. “Bucky Barnes, darling, light of my life. I love you.”

Bucky dissolves into contagious laughter that Clint can’t help but catch even as they finally stumble out of bed. Bucky sits on the edge, just for a moment, and watches as Clint pulls on a hoodie and some sweatpants. He stops in the doorway to the hall when he notices that Bucky isn’t behind him. 

“You coming?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says breathlessly. “Of course. I’ll be right there.”

Clint’s his true north, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
